It stood at the entrance,
And would not move.
Its palms, though, swayed,
to the windy groove.
Its trousers seemed browner than usual.
And its fringes, greener than before.
Its gait, too, was very casual
Than it was the year before.
But alas, I am to leave home,
And it won't come along.
So I have to pack my bags,
With colours that flood a lonesome song.
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